


Walking

by heisenfox



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America: The Winter Soldier (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, the winter soldier - Fandom
Genre: Coda, Spoilers, cap 2 spoilers, do not read if you haven't seen Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 10:30:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1425193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heisenfox/pseuds/heisenfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Walking is easy. So he walks. He walks through the night, noting somewhere in his mind that the chill of the night doesn’t seem to touch him. He wonders if he is Bucky Barnes, if nothing will ever be cold again, not after the drop into the ice."</p>
<p>Coda to Captain America: The Winter Soldier; CONTAINS SPOILERS</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walking

He’s not sure what convinces him to leave the guy on the edge of the Potomac. Every fiber of his being, every little voice in the back of his head, they’re all screaming at him to go back, to finish the job, that he never fails to carry out his orders. Every step away from Captain America is a fight, and every step requires all the strength he has left. He remembers asking Pierce who his target was, remembers repeating the words, “ _But I know him_ ,” over and over and over. And then he remembers pain. Pain was always used to remind him to do his job whenever he strayed. The pain in these steps, the pain in walking away, that should be enough to convince him to go back, to finish the mission. Instead, it’s the fuel he needs to keep walking.

At some point, night begins to fall, and he decides that’s for the best. He’s certain his face and particular physique have been plastered across news stations as a wanted man; with the cover of night, he can move more soundly, more safely, just...more. As he passes a bridge, he sees a group of men huddled around a shopping cart, each pulling out hooded jackets or blankets, preparing to spend the night on the freezing cold ground. They fill out the space around their bodies with newspaper, and he has a flashback to a very cold camp and an intense desire for insulation. He shakes away the memory that feels more like a dream, and approaches softly, intent on stealing a sweater when the men fall asleep. What he doesn’t expect is for them to toss one toward his hiding spot in the deepest of the shadows.

The man who tossed it speaks; “Gonna be a cold one tonight, bud. Better bundle while you can.”

He doesn’t know how to thank him because he’s forgotten the words of thanks. He never needed them in this lifetime, and Hydra never encouraged them. A grunt escapes his throat, and the man nods; acknowledgement of any kind seems to be enough for these men, here at the edge of their world, living in squalor and still getting by. He puts the hoodie on, tugs the sleeve down over his left arm, flips up the hood, and continues walking. If he stops for too long, he won’t be able to continue at all.

He doesn’t much notice the passage of time as he wanders the streets, doesn’t feel the change in the air around him until daylight starts to prickle and prod at the rim of the sky. He begins avoiding windows on cars, on shops, reflections on newspaper bins. He’s afraid of his own face, afraid he’ll see himself and remember his mission, afraid the voice will grow louder as it shouts, “ _You failed_!” He keeps walking and waiting, hoping to blend into the melee of life and workers.

In what seems like no time at all, people are pouring onto the streets, bustling along, shouting commands into cell phones, gossiping about the events of the previous day. A man in a suit fumbles in his trenchcoat pocket for a cigarette and dislodges a stack of dollar bills without noticing. A woman with a baby in a carriage rushes past. A group of people load into a car.

After a few moments, he slinks past the man in the trenchcoat, scoops up the fallen money, and carries on. He’s quieted the voices in his head for now, replaced them with a new voice. “ _He knew you._ ” A bus approaches the stop he’s next to, upon it there is an advertisement for the new Captain America wing at the Smithsonian Museum. On impulse, he pulls out the money he found, and climbs aboard the bus. He finds a seat in the rear, keeps his hood pulled tight and his eyes on the floor as he listens for the stop he needs.

There’s a fee to get in -- of course there’s a fee to get in. He counts the bills in his pocket and doesn’t have enough. He improvises. After a few minutes -- or is it a few hours? -- of watching the security guards, observing the ticketers, and counting the number of guests per group, he figures out the easiest way to sneak in. Without blinking, he’s done it, and is making a beeline for the only thing of interest to him in the entire building. His pace slows as he looks upon the giant mural of Captain Steve Rogers, alias Captain America. He searches the now-familiar face, and tries to feel. Instead, the voices in his head start whispering again. “ _You failed. He should be dead. You failed._ ”

Walking is the only thing he can do, so he does it. Walks past Steve, past the display of uniforms. Something in the corner catches his eye, and he walks to it. A glass partition resembling an obelisk is in front of him, detailing the story of the singular Howling Commando who gave his life for his country in World War II. Tales of how Captain America and this man were friends their whole lives. How they were with each other to the end of the line. The voices in his head stop as he looks upon his own face, as his hand reaches out and traces the name. _James “Bucky” Buchanan Barnes._

He doesn’t know how long he stares, how long he feels, how long he reads. The words run through his mind so many times he’s sure he can taste them. The image of himself is so burned into his memory that he’s almost positive he can remember once looking in the mirror at that version of himself. It’s too much, and it’s not enough. As he stands and stares, he hears people clicking their tongues, children whining in what he’s sure they think are whispers. People are beginning to notice him; he’s taking too much time.

Pulling his hood tighter, he turns and walks back toward the uniform display. He looks at the faces of the so-called Howling Commandos, reads their names, tries to remember. He can’t. As if driven by a force outside himself, his hands find the uniform that belonged to Bucky Barnes; he traces the cloth reverently, not knowing what he hopes to find in the stitching -- maybe his soul. In the end, he finds nothing; just another piece of a life that cannot have belonged to him, another memory he’ll never know. He moves back to the murals of Captain America -- “ _Steve_ ,” the voices in his head correct -- and stares some more.

He can remember the way he sounds when dying, the sound of his ragged breath after being shot, the determination in his eyes as he stood even with a bullet in his gut. He can remember the tone of Captain America’s voice when he said, “ _I’m not gonna fight you, Buck._ ” Remembers the way the words “ _I’m with you til the end of the line_ ,” stopped him from completing his mission. There is no understanding, no reasoning. Just remembrance.

He is reminded of his lack of a firm grasp on the concept of time when he’s approached by an old man in a security uniform and told the museum closed twenty minutes ago. He grunts for the second time that day, and heads out, keeping his eyes to the floor as he’s grown accustomed to in just a few hours. The voices in his head whisper different things, conflicting things; he doesn’t know who to trust, or where to go. Walking is easy. So he walks. He walks through the night, noting somewhere in his mind that the chill of the night doesn’t seem to touch him. He wonders if he is Bucky Barnes, if nothing will ever be cold again, not after the drop into the ice.

Morning finds him again, daylight tugging at his eyes. The city springs to life once more, and he doesn’t know where his feet will take him this time. Instincts tell him to find the hospital holding Captain America; logic tells him he doesn’t have a chance getting in. He keeps walking. Spends days walking. People hand him small amounts of money as they pass, assume he’s a down-on-his-luck ordinary guy. He grunts in response. A man in a suit hands him a twenty and tells him to eat. He remembers the words, rolls them around on his tongue for a while, and finally says, “ _Thank you_.”

He doesn’t know how long it’s been, doesn’t know where else to go, doesn’t know how long he can hide. He waits to be called into a mission, waits to be given purpose, even waits to wake up and find he’s still a day away from fighting Captain America. None of it happens. Nobody finds him, nobody needs him, nobody knows him. He can keep walking safely. He just has to decide where he’s walking toward.

He listens as he walks, to whispers among groups of friends and secrets traded between the homeless. They talk about S.H.I.E.L.D. and their secrets being online, about Hydra secretly taking it over, about Captain America and the rest of the Avengers and the one they’ve dubbed the Falcon. It’s days before he hears anything of himself; he’s nearly forgotten they call him The Winter Soldier. The whispers around his moniker are more hushed than those even around the discussion of now public intelligence. They wonder where he is, if he lives, if he truly saved Captain America. More than anything, they wonder _who_ he is. They do not realize he wonders the very same thing.

Through the whispers, he learns that his walking has taken him very near where Captain America currently resides. “ _He’s moved_ ,” the voices in his head supply. The part of him that remembered how to say thank you isn’t surprised; Captain America wouldn’t be the man people say he is if he was comfortable living in the apartment his friend was shot and killed in -- though, he has theories on whether he actually managed to kill Fury or not.

The voices in his head don’t care about that. Instead, they whisper in voices as hushed as those who finally uttered the name Winter Soldier, prodding at him with suggestions to find Captain America and demand answers. His feet answer their call before he’s even done arguing with the voices, and by the time he resigns himself to it, he looks up to see that he’s already halfway there. It’s a simple place, once he finds it -- and he knows he’s found it. Doesn’t know how he knows. He just does. Something tugs at his mind, like something half-remembered from another life, another universe, another reality. His hand on the shoulder of a small boy, a friend, walking up the simple steps to the front door. The offer of a different place to be, and the admonition that the small boy doesn’t need to be alone.

He shakes away the image as best he can, and lifts his good arm up to knock. His hand stays up in the air as he prepares to bring it to connect with the door, and for a moment, he thinks of nothing but fleeing. Eventually, his fist connects, with the softness of a babe’s, and he’s certain it won’t be heard. Hopes it won’t be heard. He pulls the hood tighter around his face, a security tic he’s developed in trying to stay hidden, when suddenly the door opens.

The man in front of him looks exhausted, looks beaten and bruised. The voices in his head start up again. “ _You did this_.” “ **You failed**.” “ _You hurt him._ ” “ **You failed**.” “ _You knew him_.” Recognition blazes in Steve’s eyes -- and he has started calling him Steve, at least internally, even if he doesn’t know why. They stand still, staring, for several minutes -- or is it hours? Maybe it’s days. It feels like lifetimes.

Finally, Steve speaks. “Bucky.”

It’s more of an exhalation than speaking. It’s lost and broken and reverent all at once. It feels like a prayer, a condemnation, and hope. He grunts in response, and Steve’s eyes steel.

“Are you here to finish the job?” he asks, attempting to inject venom into his voice, and failing. Steve sounds like he’s just lost all the hope he had left.

He wonders how to speak, what to say, how to ask for help. The Winter Soldier never asked for help before. “I…”

“You..?”

“I saw the museum,” he finally says. “Tell me everything.”

Steve attempts to wave him inside, but he won’t follow. _Can’t_ follow. The voices in his head have finished their battle, and one cry won out. “ _He’s your mission._ ” If he follows Steve inside, he won’t be able to shut them out. So he walks down the steps, and waits. There’s a shuffle, the unmistakable sound of a coat-front zipper, and the door shuts. They walk. For blocks and blocks they walk, without saying anything. He doesn’t know what town he’s in anymore, isn’t sure if he’s still in New York or some other state. He doesn’t know how long he walked to get here.

Before he knows it, they’re walking up the steps of some shabby looking building with a CONDEMNED notice plastered on the door. He wonders if it’s possible this is the same one he imagined earlier. The voices in his head tell him it’s not. Steve starts talking about how his parents died, how Bucky offered to take him in, how the two of them tried to join the Army and only Bucky succeeded. He talks about a man called Erskine who took a chance on him and let him in, about a woman called Peggy who owed him a dance, and about saving hundreds of soldiers, including Bucky.

A voice in the back of his head, in a tone he’s never used in this life yells, “ _Let’s hear it for Captain America!_ ” He wonders what to believe.

They keep walking, and he realizes he’s in Brooklyn. It makes sense, he thinks, that Captain America would eventually end up back where his story started. He just doesn’t know if his story started here. Steve keeps talking, points out alleyways where he and Bucky got in fights that Steve usually started. Slowly, their walk takes them back toward Steve’s new home, the silence thick with the rehashed memories.

He glances at Steve out of the corner of his eyes, says, “I don’t remember any of it. I don’t know if I ever will. I don’t even know if I’m him.”

He stops walking when they hit Steve’s front steps. Steve extends his hand, and he stares at it. Eventually, he finds himself shaking it. He looks up, and Steve looks hopeful. “Will you come back?”

“Probably not.”

The next day, he does.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hoping this will be part 1 in a series of short fics based post TWS. Eventual Bucky/Steve relationship.


End file.
